


Convection Currents

by Arukou



Series: Tumblr Archive [42]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputation, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthetic Limb, Wingfic, get-together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7557142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arukou/pseuds/Arukou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve, with his bulky awkward wings, has never been much of a dancer. Sam's not about to take no for an answer, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Albatross

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/post/141816126701/wing-porn-no-actual-porn-ive-been-bummed-out).
> 
> Please note chapters are self-contained stories.

Steve’s known a lot of good flyers in his lifetime. Bucky was probably the first, what with the way he flew circles around the ladies to impress them. Back before the war, Buck used to drag him to open-air markets in sunny weather or multi-story lofts if it was rainy or dark out, and then he’d take the air, swooping and spinning and turning on a dime like he was a tornado awing.

Steve, with his gangly albatross wings that had never fit his skinny body, could hardly compete. He couldn’t even manage a good running speed to get aloft, so he’d end up stumbling and tripping over his own feet until he managed to drag himself into the air. Alan Robinson had once said Steve looked like one of those ground-bound deer with the spindly wobbly legs, about to be eaten by wolves. That had ended in a fist fight so bad that half of the flight feathers on Steve’s right wing had snapped and he’d been grounded for months. 

Then in the war, he’d seen how flying could be turned from grace to deadly precision. Buck wasn’t the only ace flyer in the Howlies. Jones, with his peregrine wings, could catch enemies out of the blue and snap their necks before they knew what hit ‘em. And Denier, who wasn’t fast, but was powerful. Steve once saw him break a Hydra soldier’s femur with hardly more than a flick of his big goose wings.

But Steve has never seen a man or woman fly the way Sam Wilson flies. Flying laps every morning had never given Steve a taste really. How could it have, when they were both flying to keep in shape and not show off?

Then Nat barges into their lives and insists it’s been months since they had a break and they need to _relax_.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Steve snorts, but he doesn’t want to fight over it. Not really. He’s just happy to see her, even if she refuses to say a word about where she’s been hiding out or why her vivid red hair is now a decidedly dull mousey brown.

She forces Sam and him into clubbing clothes the likes of which Steve is decidedly not used to. The blue silk halter leaves his back uncomfortably bare and he shivers where the breeze runs along his spine. His arms are bare as well, and when he steps blushing back into the living room, Natasha nods with a kind of smug satisfaction. “Knew those pants would fit you like a glove. And ladies will go nuts for your arms.”

He shrugs and wonders how long it will take for the blush to fade when Sam steps out, dressed in a black long-sleeved number that floats loose in the back, its edges draping elegantly down Sam’s hips and…Steve hurried looks back up and sees Natasha’s smirk settle into an even more self-satisfied shape.

She leads them to a loft club fifteen stories high and sets them loose on the premises. “Make me proud boys,” she says with a smirk, and Steve grimaces. Even after the serum helped him grow into his wings, he’s pretty sure he’s never been a very graceful flyer. His feathers are shaped for long-distance marathons, not the kind of tight turns and sharp dives that people do in places like this. Sam’s angled wings, however, give him advantage.

He gives Steve a thumbs up and then leaps into the air, flapping quickly to gain height before dropping suddenly to begin a circling dance with a hawk who smiles flirtatiously. Steve watches them flap up and up before suddenly diving, twirling around each other like twin shooting stars. The black shirt Nat dressed Sam in trails elegantly behind him, billowing first up and then streamlining as Sam rises and falls.

As the music swells, Sam does a loop around his partner and then circles her close on each side, gently brushing her arms with his flight feathers as he passes. It’s risky, almost fool-hardy, but he makes it look effortless and she laughs as he climbs around her, going almost twice her speed to compensate for the turning motion. Steve is enraptured.

The music fades away and Sam trades partners, now dancing with a man with white crane wings that spread farther and rounder than Sam’s own swift wings. The man’s not as maneuverable, but he makes up for it with a sort of stateliness, gliding in long sweetly deliberate movements first one way, then the other. Sam changes up his own style, flitting and flirting with the man’s flight path, twisting first one direction then the other, pulling off daring drops in time to the heavy throbbing bass.

“You could join him,” Natasha says in Steve’s ear, and he jumps, his wings shooting out and knocking over a bar stool.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he shouts to the bartender and the surrounding clubbers, flushing as he picks up the stool and sets it aright. “Thanks,” he grumbles once everything is picked up and Nat draws near again.

“Your own fault,” she says, and sips at a drink that smells to Steve like it largely consists of turpentine. “Seriously, though. You should fly with him.”

“Nat, I might be able to fly faster than the average albatross, but I still corner like shit. It’s better if I just stick down here. Smaller chance of injuring anyone that way.”

“I think you underestimate yourself. Sam’ll make you look good. All you need to do is give him a chance.”

“I don’t want him to make me look good, though. I just want to…um…” He’s glad the club is relatively dark, because between the exposed back of his shirt, the stool incident, and the way he’s now thinking of Sam, he must be as red as a tomato.

“Well, flying with him would be a pretty good way for that to happen, too,” Nat says, sipping at a new drink through a straw. Her lipstick leaves vicious red lip prints on the plastic, and to her right, a man is eyeing her hungrily. She sets her drink aside and stands in a slow, deadly slink, twisting to look at the man. Then she looks over her shoulder. “Get to it, Steve. Wouldn’t want to be the last dodo on the dance floor.” Then she grabs the guy who is openly staring slack-jawed at her and launches upward, dragging him along. Steve suspects that guy won’t last long, but at least Nat will have fun.

He turns his attention back to Sam, who’s climbed nearly to the top of the loft. He has yet another partner, a man with jeweled hummingbird wings who’s even more maneuverable than Sam and who can move to the beat with a kind of mesmerizing robotic rhythm. Sam’s just circling slowly, observing and analyzing. Somewhere along the way, someone attached a set of LED ribbon streamers to his ankle and they twist and flow behind him in hypnotic twisting patterns.

Suddenly Sam makes his move, gliding at an oblique angle toward the his new partner, wings held stiff, almost like a kite. At the last moment, he banks sharply and doubles back, his streamers whipping sharply behind him. He continues to bank sharply back and forth, like a leaf falling from a tree, but then he begins sketching a truly dizzying pattern, flying back up to his hummingbird partner and outstretching his hand. It’s like watching two eagles in a death dance, the way they begin spinning around each other. Steve’s sweating watching them, and he’s prepared to do anything and everything if Sam should fall, but then they suddenly break apart and all of Sam’s feathers flair just as the music crests. It’s magnificent, especially when the man with the hummingbird wings does the same, flashing green in the space the other dancers have made around them.

Before he’s really thought about it, Steve begins flapping. He clears the space around him pretty quickly, the draft from his wings sending napkins flying, but he’s only got eyes for Sam, who’s now doing a few resting circles around the edges of the loft. It takes several massive flaps and an awkward hop in the limited space, but Steve manages to get skyward and flap his way up to a comfortable cruising altitude around the fifth floor balcony. He circles, twisting to keep his eye on Sam. He’s never done this. Ever. He’s not quite sure how to even start.

But then Sam is there, just to his right and tracking his big swooping circle. Steve’s heart gives a massive thub-dub and he can’t help but grin, his face going completely dopey.

“What’ve you got, Steve?” Sam calls out. He has to keep about twenty feet away to avoid Steve’s sprawling wingspan, but his voice carries loud and clear.

“Honestly, probably this and not much else.”

“Can you get to the top of the loft?”

“Think so, yeah.”

“Good. Do that.” And with that, Sam zooms ahead of him, leading the way up and up and up. It’s a leisurely climb, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind, doubling back and swooping playfully around Steve when he gets bored.

Steve’s not even sure what it is about his flying that makes it so elegant. Maybe its his feather control or the way he handles the air currents, like he knows how the wind will change before it shifts. Even his flapping looks elegant rather than sharp and fevered. Steve wants to capture that grace on a page, so he can hold it close to him always.

They begin their descent as the song changes over, but Steve honestly hasn’t been paying attention to the music. His focus is on the glimpses of Sam he gets darting around him, their flight feathers brushing or the tails of Sam’s streamers brushing his back. It’s thrilling knowing that he can fly so close without sending them both tumbling, that Steve can trust him enough to do that. As the song crests, for a full thirty seconds Steve doesn’t see Sam and he begins to panic. Did something go wrong? They’re nearly to the third story and the ground's coming up fast. Maybe…Steve starts scanning the ground, but there’s no sign of an accident. Suddenly there are hands on his bare skin, holding tight to his shoulders.

“Surprise,” Sam says, thrillingly close. Every time he flaps, Steve can feel the ghosting hint of Sam’s wings against his own. “If I put my weight on you, can you carry me? I’ve got a hell of a finale.”

Steve can’t find the words, he’s so knotted up with the thrill of it. He just nods sharply and re-angles his wings to give Sam more room to land. For a full ten seconds, they’re body to body, Sam’s chest pressed to Steve’s bare back and the smattering of down at the base of his wings. Then suddenly, Sam plants his feet against Steve’s lower back and launches where Steve doesn’t know, but the crowds on the balconies cheer fiercely. It must have been a hell of a sight. Steve doesn’t even mind that he missed it though.

He glides back down to the main floor in a haze of endorphins, stumbling in his landing. Sam’s just a second behind and he hits the floor laughing, his landing perfect.

“Steve! Steve that was…that was…”

Steve might never know what exactly it was because a breath later Sam grabs him by the arms, reels him in, and kisses him hard on the lips. Pliant and trusting, Steve goes with it, folding around Sam’s body as best he can. It’s a hell of a lot better than that kiss with Natasha, that’s for damn sure.

“So,” Sam says when they finally part, and Steve is captivated by the sweep of his eyelashes, “that happened.”

On the roof of his mouth, Steve’s tongue is still remembering the taste of Sam’s lips, so he just nods in response, pressing as close as he can. Sam laughs, his teeth flashing white in the darkness of the club.

Someone wolf whistles at them and Steve is suddenly hyper aware that they are kissing, Steve’s wings wrapped around both of them, in the middle of a very busy Manhattan loft. Sam laughs again and leans back, shouting “Get your own” to whoever whistled at them. Then he leans in again, and Steve can’t believe he hasn’t pulled away yet.

“You want to get out of here. Do some real flying?”

Neither of them are owl-eyed, but it shouldn’t matter with the light of the city beneath them. After a moment, Steve nods and lets Sam lead him out the door.


	2. Great-Horned Owl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky remembers what it was like to dance, but he'll never dance again, not with the damage he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/post/147289092806/okay-so-like-that-wingfic-universe-you-just-wrote).
> 
> This one was inspired by an ask Dreamcatchersdaughter sent me.

From time to time, Bucky has flashes of before, of soaring through the air filled to the brim with bravado and pride and admittedly reckless abandon. He can almost taste it, the way ruffling the feathers of a pretty sparrow-winged girl had felt, like champagne on the back of his tongue. It’s been a long time since he found any joy in flying. He glances back now, to the stiff razor-sharp feathers down his left side, and watches as they shift and realign, as though aware of his scrutiny. When he looks up, he catches Steve watching him, doleful blue eyes and puckered corners of his mouth.

He knows why Steve’s watching, knows that Steve knows that Bucky has been thinking for months how much he’d like to go dancing with Tony, even just turning lazily around a loft, but his wing is too dangerous for that. His own left side is covered in ragged raised scars from where he cut himself with his own feathers before he learned how to hold his metal wing. Now, in the Avengers home loft, watching Tony dance with Natalia, his chest aches, a well-worn pain that expands and contracts with each breath.

Tony’s not a great dancer; he’s serviceable at best, but his magpie wings were never made for fancy displays of acrobatics. Somehow he makes up for it though, maybe with his ineffable ego, maybe with the sex appeal he seems to have been honing since he was barely a fledgling, or maybe it’s just that Bucky is besotted and anything Tony does, from laughing to picking his nose to snoring over his work station, somehow becomes charming and endearing.

Up over the circular, sunken sitting area, Tony and Nat turn lazy circles, Nat playfully ruffling the down on Tony’s back any chance she gets. She’s so small and so agile that she could probably shave him midair if she wanted too, but instead she buzzes his hair and sends it into a horrible mess of cowlicks. Tony laughs, dropping a brief and dizzying loop-de-loop before gliding down to the open ring above the living space, flaring his wings to land with a hop or two. Nat dive bombs him, buzzing his hair again before turning in a lazy circle to land comfortably next to Steve and tug at his arm.

“Come on. Your turn, you dinosaur.”

“If I’m a dinosaur, what does that make you?” Steve grouses, but he stands and steps up to the outer ring. He runs half-way around the circle, carefully flaring his wings until he gains enough lift to clamber into the air. Nat teases him and heckles him as he gains altitude rising up the levels of the tower until he’s almost brushing the ceiling with each upward rotation of his wings. Bucky watches as Nat twirls around him, teasing him almost worse than she had Tony.

“You could join them.”

Bucky jumps and finds Tony sitting next to him, eyes sharp, if a little guarded. It’s like he’s opened up the peephole and is peering out at Bucky, even if there’s still a barrier between them. After a moment, Bucky shakes his head and looks up again.

“I don’t want to hurt them.”

He only flies in combat now, and only when the Avengers are authorized to use deadly force. He hates every second of it, even when he’s defending his friends. All it takes is one turn, one mid-air collision and then the enemy…Bucky blinks his eyes and pulls his legs onto the sofa, wrapping his arms around his knees. He turns a little more, trying to hide more of the razor feathers from view.

Tony looks considering, if still inscrutable. “Nat’s nimble enough to avoid you and you can steer clear of Steve.”

Bucky shakes his head, eyes locked on his kneecaps. His hyper aware of Sam’s scrutiny across the circle, of the way Clint’s head is tilted the way he does when he’s trying hard to pick up a conversation that’s too low for his hearing aids. “Can’t risk it. Steve can’t turn for shit. If I made a mistake, if I accidentally turned into his flight path…”

It’s not outside the realm of possibility. Bucky’s control of his metal wing is good, but it’s not absolute. He was never made to outmaneuver, he was made to batter. Hydra aimed him and shot him and he struck their enemies like a log ram against the gates of a castle. There was no evasion, no nimbleness, only brute force.

After another unbearable six seconds under the consideration of the other Avengers in the room, Bucky stands and flees, dashing to the elevator before anyone can say anything more about flying or dancing or everything Bucky wants but can’t have. He feels Tony’s eyes on his back even after the elevator doors close behind him.

* * *

“Sargeant Barnes?”

From where he curls, holding open a book that he more or less stopped reading thirty minutes ago, Bucky jumps and shakes himself, carefully and consciously rearranging his metal feathers into an orderly fall before looking up. “Yes, JARVIS?”

“Sir has requested that you might come down and visit the lab a bit. He has a few things he would like to cross-examine with you.”

“What, that Hydra tech we bagged in Macau?” Bucky asks, but he rises, glad for the distraction. He can’t dance with Tony, but that doesn’t stop him from enjoying Tony’s company. There are plenty of couples who don’t dance. Bucky’s case isn’t completely hopeless. He remembers Mary Wilheimer, who had the most magnificent ostrich plumage and had known exactly how to strut it, in spite of her grounded status. Bucky has no idea how to strut it on the ground, but he knows how to talk and listen, and maybe that’s enough.

He arrives on the workshop floor and steps into Tony’s domain, breathing in the pungent, piercing scent of motor oil and raw metal. Tony is waiting there, grinning and rocking on his heels like an eager school boy.

“Don’t get mad,” he says, and immediately Bucky is worried. What, exactly, has Tony done?

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Tony continues, gesturing and darting forward to grab Bucky’s shoulder, urging him deeper into the workshop. “I just figured, you know, Steve says you used to be such a great flyer that it’s a real shame that you ground yourself for anything but combat, no great flyer should have to be afraid of his own flight, and the problem is the metal feathers right, made to cut, and obviously that’s a little bit of a health hazard to you and those around you, so what if we changed some things up.” Through the torrent of his babble, Tony steps forward and gestures expansively to his holograms, and now that Bucky is looking, he sees that they are models of wings, his wings, both metal and flesh. And not just that. Individual feathers are arrayed out in neat rows, in multiple iterations and designs, some razor-edged, some fan-edged, some not made of metal at all.

Bucky stares at the glowing blue and yellow lines of light, hesitantly reaching out to touch them, watching as they light up under his fingers, expand and contract as they’re selected and deselected. He turns back to Tony, mouth agape and flush high in his cheeks.

“You designed this? For me?”

“Well, you know. I just thought maybe…maybe you’d like options? We don’t have to do anything,” he rushes on, holding up his hands like he’s stopping air traffic. “You know, it’s whatever you’re comfortable with. But if you’d like–”

“Yes.” Bucky says, though Tony barrels on for another three sentences before he stutters to a stop.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Tony grins with his entire face, eyes and eyebrows lifting, cheeks crinkling. Even his hair looks lighter somehow, almost windblown. Almost like he’s just touched down from a courting dance.

* * *

Bucky rotates his wing, stretching it to its fullest extent, ruffling the feathers one by one, sweeping it forward and back as though to shake out the dust that is not yet lodged in it. It feels so unfathomably light. He’d forgotten what it was like, not hauling along an extra thirty pounds of hollowed vibranium and the circuitry to control it. He feels like he could float away like a bubble on the wind, up and up toward the sun until he was out of sight entirely. His shoulder is already unknotting itself from years and years of stress and over-extension.

“How’s the control? Do the feathers feel like they’re responding?”

Tony’s been redoing the coding for the wing, too, speeding up the response times, increasing the neural connections so Bucky can control individual sections of the wing rather than just the whole thing. He spreads the wing and sends the feathers ruffling in another wave, smiling with a deep and warm satisfaction–it’s as easy as thought.

When he looks back, Tony is smiling too, hands on his hips like a proud father. Then he meets Bucky’s eyes and his grin widens until his teeth are gleaming. “You want to take it for a spin?”

Bucky’s gut drops with fear and exhilaration. He wants to. He wants to try so badly. But he’s afraid. He hasn’t flown for himself, for pleasure, for joy in so long that he’s not sure he’ll remember how. What if it’s been wiped from his brain entirely, ripped out by Hydra so they could replace it with their own sick battering ram programming?

Tony seems to sense his hesitation, because he steps forward and takes up Bucky’s hand. “I’ll go with you.”

Well that…that almost seems doable. Tony won’t let him fall, won’t let him crush, won’t let him break anything or be broken by anything. With Tony at his side, flying, _dancing,_ feels like it might almost be within Bucky’s grasp. He gives a little nod, and Tony smiles, pulling him toward the elevator.

They reach the base of the living loft, and thankfully, luckily, none of the other Avengers are there. Maybe they’re off in their own quarters, hunkered down in their own nests, flying the New York skies. Bucky doesn’t know or care. He just knows that he doesn’t want them here to see him if he fails, if he falls. He stands at the edge of the room, staring at the flat ring of take-off space around the sitting area, and focusing on his breathing.

“With me,” Tony says, his hand brushing Bucky’s arm, and then he’s off running, more for Bucky’s benefit than his own. Tony can take off from a standstill, the lucky bastard. Bucky, though, he’s probably going to need the air under his wings, at least this first time. He spreads his flesh wing, the mottled brown feathers ruffling silently in the breeze of his running, and then hesitantly, he spreads the other wing. It almost takes his breath away when they catch air, when they try to carry him aloft. He skids to a stop, wings still outstretched, feeling the pressure responses of the carbon nano-tube feathers, the way their careful matrices almost match those of his owl side.

Caught up in the joy of it, the _rightness_ of it, Bucky doesn’t realize Tony is fluttering in front of him in a panic until Tony grabs his shoulders. “Bucky! I asked if it hurt.”

Slowly, wonderingly, Bucky shakes his head. It doesn’t hurt. It is the antithesis of hurt, a pleasure so great Bucky’s not sure he has a word for it. Without answer, Bucky grins and whoops and leaps into the air. The currents catch beneath his wings and as he flaps he climbs higher and higher. It’s not a perfect response. The feathers still move in sections rather than individually. They can’t respond like his real wing. He doesn’t fucking care. The air under his wings feels like the the breaking of chains, tastes like sweet late-summer air over ripe wheat, and Bucky is never coming down again. He’ll never let this go.

A moment later, he realizes Tony is up with him, pacing him, grin unbounded across his face. It’s there then, in his mind, the way it always had been before, a surety of himself and his partner. Seventy years falls away, if only for a second, and Bucky is turning through a dance loft, swing brass vibrating through the air around him. Without a second thought, Bucky turns on a dime flaring his wings and flapping so that he jumps over Tony’s head. The moment he’s clear he dives and spins, slipping beneath Tony and pushing his wing faster, working to regain his altitude. Behind him Tony whoops and then they’re laughing together as Bucky climbs and climbs, nearly to the ceiling. He flairs and backflips, diving effortlessly down past Tony and then flaring near the ground floor. Even as his wings catch the air, he feels something move in a way it shouldn’t. He hazards a glance, flipping his feet forward as he realizes he’s now in a fall rather than a dive. One section of flight feathers a third of a way down his wing has stopped responding. He tumbles feet first into a nest of pillows, rolling over his shoulder a few times, tucking his wings close to avoid as much damage as possible.

“Bucky! Bucky! Oh my god, Bucky!”

There are hands on his shoulder, and quick as lightning, Bucky reaches up and pulls Tony down into the pillows with him, shaking with laughter that first starts breathless and then switches into full loud guffaws that chase each other up through the loft to disappear into the ceiling. Tony is laughing too, stomach heaving, limbs spread akimbo.

For a breathless, delicious age, they lay there, shaking together, until Bucky pulls himself to his elbows, twisting to look down at Tony’s still smiling face.

“You’re an asshole,” Tony states, his tone and grin incongruous with the words.

“Yeah.”

“Seriously, are you ok?”

Bucky, in answer, reaches forward and runs a hand through Tony’s hair, pausing so that he can run his thumb over Tony’s cheekbone. “I’m pretty damn ok.”

Where he’s come to expect witty repartee, he’s met with only silence and Tony’s suddenly changed expression, his softly parted lips and his wide eyes. They move as one, pressing into a kiss soft as fledgling down, warm as a summer’s afternoon.

With a soft sigh, Bucky pulls back first, blinking his eyes lazily open to catch Tony’s expression. He looks like he might just melt into the pillows, his eyelashes coal-black on his cheeks, his lips still soft and full and almost too inviting.

When he at last opens his eyes, an air of peace has settled over him, an unwavering sense of sweet satisfaction. “Been waiting for you to do that for months.”

“Why wait? Why didn’t you make a move?”

“Wanted you to be ready, to know that you’d never hurt me.”

“I might still hurt you,” Bucky says, but he can’t even bring himself to banish his own smile.

“Yeah,” Tony breathes, reaching up to toy gently with the ends of Bucky’s long hair. “Risk I’m willing to take.” He sighs, a happy little breath of sound and a puff of air across Bucky’s lips. “So, what happened?”

“Section of feathers failed. I’m not sure if I broke the neural connection or what.”

“Well, I might not have recommended a backflip for your first test flight, but we got some pretty good results out of it so…”

“I could’ve told you he’d try something like that!”

Both Tony and Bucky jerk, and Bucky turns onto his side so he can look up. Steve’s leaning over the balcony of the third-floor, grinning like a madman, Sam at his side. “It was his favorite trick for impressing someone he was sweet on.”

“Was it now?” Tony says, catching Bucky’s eyes with a mischievous smirk.

Buck looks back up the loft and notices Natasha looking down from her loft, her red curls still in sleepy disarray. Clint’s nowhere to be seen, but Bruce is over in the kitchen doorway with a steaming mug of tea. Bucky sighs, looking over them all, and shouts up to Steve, “If the peanut gallery’s quite finished, Tony’s got a wing to fix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and nerdery.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/) for more fanfiction and nerdery.


End file.
